


Cockles and Mussels

by Petra



Series: How to Marry a Millionaire [5]
Category: DCU
Genre: Identity Porn, Matches Malone - Freeform, Multi, Sleaze, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-29
Updated: 2005-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-11 17:33:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malone winks at Dick. "Let me be your sugar daddy for a minute, kiddo."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cockles and Mussels

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://brown-betty.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://brown-betty.livejournal.com/)**brown_betty** for her help as a beta.

  
Dick is entirely too well-dressed for the dive he walks into, but he doesn't give a shit. Let them stare at him, think he's some Mafia enforcer or whatever. At least if they think he's that kind of dangerous, they won't mess with him, and he'll live through this little adventure. Even the thought of being jumped is enough to make his blood race.

Just what he came in here for -- excitement. Probably no one will figure out that he's the heir to however many million bucks Bruce has these days, so he's safe enough.

All the regulars are keeping their distance as he steps up to the bar and orders a rum and coke. Well -- if this place doesn't work out, there are others. He finds a seat at a table where he can watch the door, and watch the people -- poor, dirty, corrupt. No one he knows. No one he wants to know. Bruce may think it's nice to play the philanthropist on occasion, but even he doesn't get this up close and personal with the man on the street.

"What's a kid like you doing in a place like this?" somebody asks him in the harshest Jersey accent he's had the displeasure to hear in months. A guy comes over -- his clothes almost as hideous as his voice -- and leans on his table.

"Sight-seeing," Dick says, putting a hand on his wallet.

The guy grins under his ratty mustache. "Sure you are, kid. Slumming is more like it. Hey --" he leans in far, far too close. There's something dangling at the corner of his mouth. A toothpick, maybe. "Don't I know you?"

Dick stares at him. "I don't think so. I'd remember that blazer of yours."

The guy thumps him hard on the shoulder. "Ain't you a kidder. No -- really." He pulls up a stool, entirely uninvited. "You look familiar."

"I can't imagine why." Dick folds his arms.

"Hey -- I seen you on the news a coupla times. In the papers." The man waves his finger at Dick. "You're -- you're that kid Bruce Wayne adopted, ain't you."

The legacy has to follow him even here. Dick sighs. "Maybe."

"No maybe about it." The man laughs, then coughs like a life-long smoker. Strange; he doesn't smell like cigarettes. "What's your name -- Grayson. Something Grayson."

Publicity is not at all to Dick's taste, but perhaps something more than annoyance will come of this. "Fine. Yes. Dick Grayson. And you are?"

"Matches Malone." He reaches up to tip a hat he's not wearing. "Well, damn, kid. What the hell are you doing all the way down here? You fall off the tower?"

Dick rolls his eyes. "Sometimes I need a change of scenery. That's all."

"Uh-huh. Sure. Sure, that's it." Malone gives him a measuring look. "All the way down here dressed like that. Looks like you want to get jumped, kid. Didn't Wayne teach you not to dress like that?"

"He has nothing to do with this." Dick sips his drink.

"Aw. He don't keep tabs on you anymore?" Malone tips his chair back. "Wouldn't think he'd let a pretty thing like you out of his sight, but I guess maybe you're too old for him."

Dick coughs. "What the hell do you mean?"

"Easy, kiddo." Malone reaches over and actually thumps his shoulder. "You gotta know how, you know, shady the whole arrangement looks to your average Joe Q. Public, that's all."

"That's not funny." Dick glowers at him. "And it's not like that."

"'course it's not." And Malone, damn him, doesn't believe it. He pats Dick's hand. "No playboy billionaire ever took advantage of a pretty boy. No sir."

Dick weighs his options. He can abandon the last sips of his drink and leave in a huff. He can shout Malone down, whatever good that will do. Or he can listen and laugh at how ridiculous it all is. He taps his fingers on the side of his glass, and Malone winks at him. "Let me be your sugar daddy for a minute, kiddo." He goes to the bar. It would be a great moment for Dick to get the hell away, but he just leans back in his chair and watches the bouncer card someone. Malone turns his back -- like he's expecting Dick to run away, maybe, or expecting him to stay. When he comes back with a drink in each hand, he grins. It doesn't make him any more handsome. "Hey there."

Dick takes what Malone offers and sips it. It's not the same. Stronger. Harsher. "Thanks."

"No problem." He sits down again and leans in, all confidential. "So you're not admitting to anything, huh?"

Dick wrinkles his nose. "Is this some kind of a thing with you?"

"Nah. Nah, not at all. Just -- it's one of them things that everybody knows, you know, and it'd be damn funny if it was real."

Dick snorts. "It's not."

"Aw. You sure?"

He takes another sip of the new drink, whatever it is. "Yes."

Malone shakes his head. "Too bad. I mean -- not for you, baby, but there are some damn good stories going around."

Dick narrows his eyes, trying to figure out what Malone's crooked smile is supposed to mean. "Such as?"

"Aw, you know." He turns his head, waving a hand.

"Amazingly enough, nobody ever shares this kind of rumor with me." Dick smiles, a little, and watches Malone's eyes widen. "I think they think I already know."

"C'mon, kiddo --" Malone shakes his head. "Nothin' you should hear, really."

"No, no." Dick raises his glass in a kind of salute. "I'm calm. Tell me."

Malone frowns and looks away. "You sure?"

"Yes." Dick smiles, making it as knowing as he can.

"Okay, okay." Malone shakes his head. "Well -- everybody's heard about you, you know, so there're all these wacko theories about how Wayne keeps stuff quiet, if you catch my meaning."

"Right."

"Like the annual cops' ball, and all that."

Dick blinks. "What's that got to do with me?"

Malone gives him a worried frown and looks at the table. "Oh, you know. Dirty cops. You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours, excepting not exactly backs, and not exactly scratching. Wayne's friends with the old Commissioner. You know."

It takes a moment. And then Dick laughs. "Yuck. No. No, that's not true."

"Didn't figure." Malone shrugs. "Anyway. Stories like that."

"But nobody would believe that," Dick protests. "Gordon's been married enough times. He's got kids."

"Wayne dates all sorts of ladies, don't he?" Malone eyes him. "You probably do too. Doesn't stop anybody from stuff on the side."

Dick grins, waving a hand, and leans forward so Malone doesn't have to raise his voice. "That can't be the only story out there."

"It's bad enough." Malone shakes his head.

"Oh, come on." Dick reaches over and touches his shoulder, trying to ignore the nasty, nubbly texture of his jacket. "I want to know, and nobody else is going to tell me this stuff."

"And it does sorta get worse," Malone says, glancing at him over his sunglasses. "Like -- I guess it's not a rumor so much as a joke. Not a funny joke," he adds defensively. "Just -- like -- how do you know you've got a business deal with Wayne Enterprises? When the cute kid shows up on your doorstep naked. That sort of thing."

"That's not even worth repeating once." Dick shakes his head. "You're taming this stuff down for me, aren't you." He grins at Malone. "You don't have to."

"You shouldn't have to hear this." Malone shrugs.

"No, no. Give it to me straight. C'mon."

Malone sighs. "You sure you won't get mad?"

"Did you think it all up?"

"No!" Malone holds up his hands. "Not me!"

"Then I won't get mad."

"Well." Malone rubs his nose. "There are bookies out there -- not that I'm betting with them, you know -- who'll give you odds on how old the next one's going to be."

Dick blinks. "The next what?"

"The next kid Wayne takes in. 'cause there was you, right, and then you -- well, they'd say you got too old for him, so he replaced you." Malone looks up at him, but he's not looking over the glasses. Dick can't read him. "And then that kid died, right, so Wayne's kind of at loose ends. Either he's gotta start actually paying attention to the ladies, or he needs some new little boy, or he's finally getting over the kid thing."

Dick takes a larger sip of his drink than he means to and it burns his throat. When he manages to say, "People say that kind of shit?" it comes out hoarse.

Malone laughs and thumps his back again. "Sure they do, kid. And worse than that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Stuff like -- like whether Wayne tells you what's going on, what kinda stuff he expects from you right off, or whether he buys you an ice cream factory first."

Dick shakes his head. "That's -- no. No way."

"Sure." Malone pats his hand. For all his hair is greasy, his skin doesn't feel that terrible. "How old were you, anyway, when he adopted you?"

"Twenty-three." Dick laughs at Malone's shocked expression. "No, really. Bet you can get some drinks off of that one."

"Bet I can, if anybody believes me. No -- but -- really, when'd he take you in?"

Dick shrugs. "I was eight."

Malone whistles softly. "So. Did he at least wait a while?"

The raconteur style is gone, now. Dick could probably get Malone to bring it back -- or he can play into it. None of this is real, anyway. He already said that. "Oh, a while, yeah."

Malone chokes on his drink and coughs. "Kid --"

Dick grins at him. "You asked."

"I thought you said --"

"I said I never did anything with the cops." Dick shrugs. "And that's true, anyway."

Malone takes off his glasses to stare at Dick. "You're serious. You're -- you're serious. You're -- like that -- with Wayne?"

That lie won't come, even to this nobody in this nowhere place. Dick shakes his head. "No. No, I'm not." He smirks. "But mostly? He never asked."

"Jesus." Malone leans back in his chair. "Why not?"

"Do I know?" Dick shrugs, trying not to let this guy anything. He doesn't care. He really doesn't. "Because of all the shit you said, probably. Because it might make people think all that shit was true."

Malone shakes his head. "They think it anyway."

"Probably, yeah. Well -- whatever." Dick has more of whatever the hell the drink is Malone brought him. "Fuck Wayne anyway."

Malone laughs. "Yeah. Something like that." He checks his watch. "I gotta get out of here. Nice to meet you -- and you be careful." He pats Dick's shoulder too familiarly. "This is no place for pretty boys, let alone pretty boys with money in their pockets." He gets up.

"I'll keep that in mind." Dick leans back in his chair. "Thanks for the gossip, anyway."

"Good luck with Wayne."

Dick snorts. "Thanks. I'm going to need it."  


**Mussels**  


It's a bit of a struggle to get Nightwing into a nicely tailored suit -- over, not instead of, his skintight attire, even when Bruce explains -- patiently, for him -- that it's a benefit for the local groups fighting AIDS, and the rumors about Bruce Wayne's mysterious paramour are only growing louder by the day. Of course, he can't go without the mask, but Bruce gives him mirrored glasses that almost cover it.

He does carry the suit well; at some point in his other life, he must have the chance to dress well. He doesn't even fumble with the cufflinks, and he manages to tie his own tie in a respectable double-Windsor. The limousine fazes him slightly more; perhaps he's not used to a chauffeur, though no one could be more unobtrusive than Alfred.

When they arrive, Nightwing frowns. "Do we have to do this?"

Bruce clucks his tongue. "I have to make an appearance, and I don't have any other escort for the evening. I don't want to go alone."

Nightwing takes a deep breath. "Are you expecting some kind of trouble?"

"At this?" Bruce shrugs. "Nothing more than your average Gotham society bash."

Alfred opens the door. "Sirs."

"Then why did you want me to come?" Nightwing asks plaintively.

Bruce kisses him. He means it to be light, but sometimes these things get more so on their own, without one's volition. "I enjoy your company. Let's go, before we're more than fashionably late."

Nightwing frowns again -- it gives him unpleasant wrinkles; he'll have to caution him against that some other time. But he follows Bruce out of the car and lets Bruce take his arm. Almost a shame that they can't do this more often, but gossip will be rife enough after this little outing. Besides, Nightwing has to be terribly hot under all those clothes, and he hasn't relaxed yet. He asks, "How long are you going to make me stay? I have a patrol to complete, you know."

Bruce pats his hand and flashbulbs pop. There's the tabloid headline for tomorrow, but infamy is infinitely better than obscurity. "A few hours. There are some people you ought to meet."

"Me? Bruce --" Nightwing lets Bruce tug him past the paparazzi. "I don't see why I need to meet any of them."

"Relax," Bruce says in his ear. "Let me show you off."

He's beginning to get the hang of reading someone whose eyes he can't see. Nightwing looks amused and embarrassed, and rather disconcerted, all at once. "Show me off?"

"I like it when people envy me." They're through the doors, now, and the press of the crowd is less. Nightwing tries to get his arm back, but Bruce hangs on, and he doesn't press the issue. "Just remember how handsome you are, and you'll be fine."

"I feel like a trophy wife," Nightwing complains in a whisper.

"Something like that," Bruce murmurs back. "Smile."

Nightwing squeezes his arm hard enough to hurt a little, but he turns on that amazing charisma. Bruce considers the consequences of skipping this party and just taking him home.

"Bruce!" someone hails him, and the man thumps him on the shoulder. Charles. Chuck. Chad. Something like that. Blond hair, blue eyes, and a perfect smile. "Who's your friend?"

Bruce starts to say, "N --" but Nightwing interrupts him, putting out his hand for Charles-Chuck-Chad to shake.

"Robert Malone. Nice to meet you, Mister --"

"Chuck Murry." Chuck gives him a once-over. "Pleased to meet you, too, Mister -- Malone."

Nightwing's smile gets a little brighter for a moment. "Are all your friends this handsome, Bruce?"

Chuck laughs too loudly. Perhaps he's already had too much to drink. "That was my line!"

"Maybe you'll get to use it later," Bruce says, and heads for the next knot of people.

"Bruce Wayne, of all the people to see here." This isn't a man he knows, but by the look in his eyes, he's just as enthusiastic about Nightwing as Chuck was. Probably one of A-Gays. "Thank you for gracing our humble soirée. And with such a charming companion."

"Robert Malone," Nightwing says, and -- it can't be his name, but he's used to delivering it well. There are handshakes -- some a little long, but that's all right. They can make small talk -- and Nightwing can lie his way through it.

It goes like that for a while -- women saying, "Brucie, darling," and then ignoring his presence, men smirking at him, and no one saying anything of any merit. He's getting more stares than normal, which he expected. It's not bothering Nightwing at all; he's a born performer, grinning and flirting with the cream of Gotham society. All this, and he doesn't get more than a foot away from Bruce the whole time. A perfect evening.

Of course, as soon as Bruce thinks that, there's a heavy hand on his shoulder, and an intensely earnest voice saying, "Bruce. Are you all right?"

He turns and looks up -- not much, but too much -- into Clark Kent's all too blue eyes. "I'm fine, thank you, Mr. Kent." A squeeze on Nightwing's arm, and he turns, too.

Kent smiles even more brightly, then blinks, glancing from Bruce to Nightwing. "I didn't know it was a costume party."

"It's not," Nightwing says lightly, "but Bruce has these little -- ideas." He looks at Bruce. "I don't think we've met, Mr. --"

"Kent, Clark Kent." He extends his hand to Nightwing. That searching look must be what lets him keep his reputation as a journalist; lord knows his aw-shucks demeanor and perennially out-of-fashion suits wouldn't get him far otherwise.

But Nightwing's smile could put anyone at ease. "Robert Malone," he says. "I've read your work, Mr. Kent."

Bruce suppresses the urge to tell him not to flirt; it's not the right moment. Besides, Kent's blushing. "Have you?"

"Every day," Nightwing says -- and that's going a little far, really. He doesn't need to lie about it. "Your last column on the Ross cabinet was fascinating."

Any second now Kent's going to catch his tie on fire with that blush. "Thank you, ah, Mister Malone."

"Call me Robert," Nightwing says.

Kent stares at him, then smiles, relaxing a little. "Robert, then."

Bruce clears his throat. "They're going to start the entertainment soon. We should find a seat."

He'd thought Nightwing was good at reading signals, but the boy says, "Oh, well, then Mr. Kent should sit with us," and doesn't Mr. Kent look pleased at that idea.

"Here alone, Clark?" Bruce asks.

Kent nods. "I'm not just here for the society beat, you know."

"Of course not."

"What are you investigating?" Nightwing asks, enthusiastic as a little kid, but he interrupts himself, holding up his hand. "Oh, no, of course you couldn't tell if it's for a big story."

Kent chuckles and pats Nightwing on the shoulder. "Well, R-- Robert, I'd love to tell you, but -- you're right, this isn't exactly the time."

"But you should sit with us," Nightwing insists.

"I'd be flattered."

Nightwing beams at Bruce, who can't help but forgive him even this odd idea. "Then it's settled. Where should we go?"

"The seats are over this way," Bruce says, and steers him away from Kent for the moment, close enough to whisper, "What are you doing?"

Nightwing grins and murmurs back, "Nothing, really."

"Just flirting?"

"I really do read his work," Nightwing insists.

"You're practically drooling," Bruce chides him, and Nightwing squeezes his arm.

"It's only mental attraction," Nightwing says in his ear. "Except for those shoulders of his."

Bruce laughs and says, "Of course," and then they have to take a seat. Nightwing manages to get between them, somehow, so at least no one will associate Bruce's name with Kent's after this, and they're on the end of the row.

The entertainment starts with a drag show, as is de rigueur for this kind of thing. Nightwing laughs at it and says in Bruce's ear, "At least I'm not the only one with a fake name around here."

But after the first act, he starts hanging on Kent's arm and murmuring whatever his little comments are to him instead. They chuckle together at something Nightwing says, and Bruce puts his hand -- pointedly -- on Nightwing's knee. It gets his attention, and he says, "Relax, Bruce. I'm not going anywhere without you," probably softly enough that Kent won't hear.

"You'd better not," Bruce says, and squeezes his knee. Nightwing laces their fingers together, then goes back to whispering with Kent about the somewhat aging singer. Bruce restrains himself from doing anything more possessive -- yet.

By the time the band starts playing and people are dancing, Nightwing is practically murmuring sweet nothings into Kent's ear, and is half on his lap besides. Kent is far past the blushing stage, and jokes back with him -- wittily enough to make Nightwing at least pretend to laugh. Bruce waits until a girl -- Tiffany? Stephanie? Britney? -- comes over to ask him to dance, half falling out of her dress, and he has to turn her down because Nightwing still hasn't let go of his hand. Then he clears his throat and disentangles his fingers before tapping Nightwing's shoulder. "Did you want to dance?"

"Oh." Nightwing turns in alarm and stares at him. His glasses make him look even odder than normal, however pretty he is. "Did I -- oh. It must be late."

Bruce checks his watch. "It's ten-thirty."

Nightwing bites his lip. "I should go."

"So early?" Kent asks, and damn him, he doesn't have any right to put his hand on Nightwing's shoulder so familiarly. "Why?"

Nightwing fakes a huge yawn well enough that it's contagious. "You know, Clark." When did that happen? "Early to bed, early to rise, and all that."

Bruce gets up and offers him a hand. "Should get you home, then, Robbie."

Nightwing takes his hand -- not that he needs it, surely -- and when he's on his feet again, he settles against Bruce's side as comfortably as if he never left. "That sounds like a good idea. In a minute. I want something to drink first."

"That can be arranged. Goodnight, Kent."

"Bruce," Kent says, hesitating long enough for them to get away before he manages the next word, whatever it was going to be.

"Are you going to be busy tonight?" Nightwing asks as they walk.

Bruce blinks at him. "You're my date -- Robbie. I don't have anyone else to spend time with at the moment."

"Then your schedule is open? No pressing engagements?"

Bruce raises an eyebrow at him. "If you mean Desi, she's in Paris for the weekend."

Nightwing wrinkles his nose. "That's not what I meant. But you're not going anywhere right away?"

"No. Not at all."

"Then I guess I don't have to go."

Bruce smiles. "I don't know why you would. It's early, after all."

Nightwing gives him a thoroughly inscrutable look. "Mm. I could go to 'work'" -- the quotes are audible -- "or I suppose I could come home with you."

Bruce leans over and kisses his cheek. Let anyone who sees gossip; it won't matter at this point in the evening. "I know which I'd prefer."

His smile looks a little sad, which isn't the normal reaction to being kissed. "I wouldn't want to abandon your friend, though."

It's not that infrequent that Bruce gets wholly lost in a conversation, though it doesn't happen much with Nightwing. He waits a moment for Nightwing to specify, then asks, "My friend?"

"Mr. Kent," Nightwing says, and -- there's that smile again. "Clark."

"What about him?" Bruce asks.

Nightwing's smile could melt anyone's defenses. "I think we should be -- friendly."

"You mean you want to invite him over?" Bruce asks, frowning.

"If you wouldn't mind."

Which -- well -- he would, but then, Nightwing has an entire other life he doesn't know about. He could be carrying on with three other people already, or married, or almost anything. There's no benefit in getting jealous of someone who he only sees a few hours a day.

It's a discussion for another time, anyway. "If you want," Bruce says, magnanimously, and Nightwing squeezes his arm.

"Thank you. Besides, it's not like it's the first time."

Bruce glances at him. "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, please, Bruce." Nightwing laughs. "I remember what you named your toys." He pulls his arm away and gets himself a drink, and Bruce watches him go, shaking his head. If they can just wait long enough, Kent may have left by the time they find him again.

"Bruce," Kent says from right behind him. Bruce tries not to sigh too noticeably. "Thank you for introducing me to your -- friend."

"He had something else he wanted to ask you, actually," Bruce says. Kent looks far too pleased.

"Oh?"

"And here he is again. Robbie, look who I found."

Nightwing grins at Kent. "Hello again."

Kent smiles back. When he's not being deliberately foolish, he is vaguely handsome. "Hello."

"I was wondering," Nightwing says, putting his arm through Kent's, "if you wanted, ah, company for the evening."

Kent blushes. "I. Um. I thought you said you had to go."

"Well, I do." Nightwing's smile practically sparkles. "But you could come, too -- if you learned what you needed to."

"Um." Kent scratches the back of his neck nervously and looks at Bruce. "I -- I got what I needed, but --"

Bruce shakes his head. "I'm going home, Robbie. If you want him, bring him." He strides away, trying to ignore whatever negotiation goes on behind him.

When Alfred brings the car around, Bruce counts to ten under his breath, and Nightwing comes out of the door, leading Kent by the hand. He comes down the stairs with a smile and says, "He followed me home. Can I keep him?"

Bruce smirks. "I'm not sure you can handle the responsibility."

"Please?" Nightwing says, and he's trying far too hard, but it's endearing. "I'll take care of him, I promise."

Alfred clears his throat. "Sirs."

"All right, Robbie, bring him," Bruce says, waving a hand at Kent. "Alfred -- the apartment, please." It gets him a look a split-second longer than normal, but Alfred won't say anything. The privacy barrier is up in the car, so when Kent and Nightwing get in, Alfred hasn't got time to say anything in particular. It's no worse than the occasional carful of starlets, in any case.

Although the starlets rarely ignore him to kiss each other unless he asks them politely. Even then, they don't tend to climb onto each other's laps while they're still in the car. If they were starlets, Bruce might complain that Nightwing's arm around Kent's neck is somewhat obscuring his view, but -- not like this. It's easier to just nibble Nightwing's ear until he laughs and breaks the kiss to say, "Hello again."

"You could take your glasses off," Bruce suggests.

Nightwing looks at him, and the mirrors are really no odder than the white lenses, but he's used to the lenses. "I guess." Kent nibbles his ear and he shivers. "Hang on --" and he takes the glasses off, then turns to look at Kent in just the mask.

"You could take that off, too," Kent says, tracing the lines of it with one finger. "We're all friends here."

Nightwing smiles at him. "I guess I could."

Bruce clears his throat. "Nightwing, he's an investigative reporter. Do you really want him to look into your identity? Your family, if you have one?"

"But --" Nightwing shakes his head and kisses Kent's cheek. "Would you investigate me? Really?"

Kent goes all serious. It's a good look on him. "I really don't know what it would accomplish, Nightwing."

"Neither do I," Bruce says, "but it's better to leave these things as they are."

"Bruce --" Nightwing says, sounding pained.

Bruce moves down the seat and pulls him into a kiss, half because he's too beautiful not to kiss as often as possible, and half to give himself a moment to think. "That's not fair, you know," he says, and his tone may be amiable, but surely Nightwing can hear the edge under it. "After all this time, it takes someone else to make you want to give it all up?"

Nightwing kisses him again and runs his fingers through Bruce's hair. "It seems too complicated to bother with, that's all. Explaining everything to Clark -- it would be easier if you'd let me take the damn thing off."

"Now, Nightwing," Bruce says, pulling away before he can lose his focus to too many kisses. "What would Batman say to that?"

Kent splutters. "Bruce, I don't --"

Nightwing frowns at him. "It doesn't make sense."

Bruce taps Nightwing lightly on the nose. "You'd better leave it on. Don't want the Bat getting mad at you, do you?"

Nightwing sighs and turns to kiss Kent again. "Maybe we should just ignore him."

Kent's smile is somewhat wistful. "We could try."

"I could drop you both on the curb," Bruce threatens, "and then you'd have to find a cab." It takes them a moment to break off the kiss and answer, which is rather rude.

"I think we'd manage somehow." Kent is running his fingertips along the lines of Nightwing's mask.

"Then again --" Nightwing kisses his palm and shifts sideways, coming over to put an arm around Bruce. He smells like Kent's cheap cologne. Bruce itches to toss him in the shower. "It wouldn't be nearly as friendly."

The easiest thing, now, is to kiss Nightwing and feel him relax in Bruce's arms, as he almost always does. He's entirely conscious of Kent watching. It makes him move more slowly, running his hand down Nightwing's back. The suit fabric is incongruously rough, even if it is of exceedingly high quality. He entertains the notion of convincing Nightwing to take it and the shirt underneath off, but even Alfred has limits. Bringing fully costumed vigilantes into the apartment while there are other people around is probably one of them.

It's surreal enough with an audience, particularly an audience who isn't going to go away of his own accord. Kent sighs a little and reaches over to touch Nightwing's shoulder. Bruce manages not to push his hand away. "Being friendly is important," Kent says. He sounds distracted.

The car stops. Nightwing pulls away and does the momentary touchups that might be necessary, if there were anyone watching who cared about appearances. It's a calming little ritual, in any case -- straighten the tie, shoot the cuffs, check the collar. Alfred opens the door for them, saying nothing, and takes the car away after they're out.

"It's getting late," Nightwing says, looking up at the wash of light pollution in the sky.

"Don't worry about it," Bruce says, putting an arm around his shoulders. "Come inside."

He's frowning slightly. "You're sure."

"Entirely." Bruce opens the door of the building for him. Kent follows them, not nearly far enough away.

It's worse in the elevator, because Nightwing takes the opportunity to kiss Kent again. They don't fit together well, really -- Kent is too broad, and he looks clumsy even standing still because his suit fits him badly. It's really a shame that this is what Nightwing wants; surely there are people he'd look better kissing.

On the other hand, there's something there beyond just the physical attraction. When Nightwing smiles at Kent, he's not just flirting. With that soft-edged look, he may actually admire the man. Kent's smile back is warm, not merely lusty. They might be able to get lost in each other's eyes, if they could see them behind that mask and those hideously unfashionable glasses, and if Bruce were willing to give them enough time for such things.

"This is our floor," he says, and they both turn to look at him.

"I've never come in this way," Nightwing says, grinning.

"How do you normally come in, then?" Kent asks him.

"Through the window."

"Really."

Nightwing laughs. "Strictly off the record, please."

Kent touches Bruce's shoulder. His hands are heavy. "This whole night is off the record."

Bruce nods and finds the key to the penthouse. "That sounds reasonable."

He would like to maintain some sort of veto power; they are, after all, in his space, but it's also a space where Nightwing is rather more than a guest. It's no particular surprise, then, that Nightwing tugs Kent into the bedroom straightaway and unties his unpleasantly colored tie. "Is that a little better?"

"Much." Kent is fumbling with Nightwing's tie, and he's going to make a mess. Bruce rolls his eyes and moves Kent's hands away.

"I can understand why you don't care whether your clothing is in good condition by the end of the night, but not everyone has so little regard for their things." Unknotting Nightwing's tie is also an excuse to kiss him, which is something of a relief, even if Kent is touching them both.

Kent sounds amused. "I know I'm not the best-dressed guy, but is it that bad?"

Bruce runs his fingers through Nightwing's hair, savoring the kiss. Let Kent wait, especially if Nightwing wants to take this opportunity to unbutton his shirt. When they come up for air, he says, "I'd burn your clothes, but I'm afraid they'd just melt."

Kent laughs and puts one of those heavy, warm hands on his shoulder again, pulling him into a kiss. It wasn't exactly part of the plan, but Kent's -- all right, Clark's -- mouth is warm and insistent. There's no reason not to let himself enjoy this, and it gives him an excuse to touch those impressive shoulders.

Nightwing says, "Oh," softly, and that must be his hand on the small of Bruce's back.

"Bruce, you can't burn my suit," Clark says mildly. "What would I wear home?"

"I'm sure you could find something else suitably garish to wear." Bruce shrugs and takes off his cufflinks.

Clark blinks at him. "Are you saying I clash?"

Bruce shakes his head. "Don't worry about it." He holds out a hand to Nightwing, who hugs him again. "You should take your jacket off. You must be warm."

"All right." Nightwing takes off his jacket, and then his shirt. He's in full spandex garb underneath, though Clark doesn't seem to react. "I should hang this up."

"My closet is your closet," Bruce says lightly.

Clark gives him an ingenuous look. "If I hung my jacket in there, you'd complain."

"Yes, I would." Bruce kisses him again to forestall further sartorial maundering. After a few moments, he can feel Nightwing's hands on his waist, and he breaks the kiss to tug Nightwing into a three-sided embrace. "Is that better?"

"Much." Nightwing takes the opportunity to kiss Clark. Bruce leaves them to it -- at least Clark knows how things stand, at base -- and takes his pants off. This suit needs to go to the cleaners in any case.

"So," Clark is saying as Bruce takes off his jacket and finds the laundry basket, "is it still Robert, or should I call you Nightwing?"

"It doesn't matter, really." The sound of a cheap zipper -- really, Clark's wardrobe -- and then they're kissing again.

"It's not exactly fair, is it?" Bruce says, stroking Nightwing's back. "You're still fully dressed."

"Not exactly." Nightwing turns his head and smiles over his shoulder. The white lenses are gone. His eyes are all too visible, and brown.

"You're taking risks again." Bruce nibbles his ear. "Maybe I should indulge you more often."

"God." Nightwing leans back on him a little, unfastening his costume and pushing his leggings down. For some reason, he's wearing kelly green briefs underneath, and he hasn't taken off his boots yet. With his leggings around his ankles, he's a little off balance, but Clark is there to help with boy scout efficiency, and soon he's naked from the waist down. "Do you really want me to take more risks?"

"Calculated ones, maybe." Bruce tucks one hand under Nightwing's shirt and teases at his nipples. "Nothing too out of the ordinary."

"Nothing like bringing home a dashing reporter?" Nightwing asks, and pulls Clark in for another kiss.

"There may be occasional exceptions," Bruce admits, murmuring in his ear.

"Do you think I'm dashing?" Clark asks. How he can manage to blush -- well, he's naked, but still.

Bruce raises an eyebrow at him over Nightwing's shoulder. "Fishing for compliments?"

"I don't know many reporters," Nightwing says, nuzzling Clark's neck, "and I meant you, yes." He leans back on Bruce again and wraps one leg around Clark's waist.

"Um," Clark says, and for once, his eloquence suits his situation. "Wow."

"There is a perfectly functional bed, Nightwing, " Bruce says in his ear. "No need to indulge your rug burn fetish in front of company."

He laughs and writhes a little, making Kent gasp. "I thought you liked the floor."

"Sometimes," Bruce admits, "but perhaps not tonight."

"Well -- all right." He lets Clark go -- the man must have an amazing sense of balance, because he hardly stumbles -- and turns to embrace Bruce again. He feels entirely familiar and delightful. It makes a small warning bell go off in his head -- familiar means it's really time to move on, most likely.

Then again, that's generally because familiar means dull. The way Nightwing moves against him -- it would take a more jaded palate than Bruce possesses to be bored with that.

There are worse, or at least far more treacherous things than being bored with someone. He has to bite back affectionate words; they would be inappropriate in front of Clark, however addled Bruce is. It's a little easier when Nightwing lets him go and moves toward the bed. As always, he moves like someone who knows exactly where every inch of his body is at all times.

He must know, then, what a picture he presents on his hands and knees, grinning at them. It's still a little jarring to see his eyes. "Are you just going to watch me?" Nightwing says, glancing from Bruce to Clark and back again.

"Not if that's an invitation," Clark says, and gets into bed. He ends up behind Nightwing, leaning on the headboard, all clumsiness, particularly in contrast to Nightwing.

"Robbie," Bruce says, raising an eyebrow at him, "this whole thing was your idea."

Nightwing wrinkles his nose. "Come to bed, Bruce."

Bruce shakes his head and sits on the edge of the bed so that he can touch Nightwing's face. "Don't do that."

Nightwing ducks his head enough to catch Bruce's fingertips in his mouth. "It worked."

"Oh," Clark says. "Um."

Bruce shivers. "'Um,' Kent?"

"Bruce," Nightwing says reproachfully, letting his fingers go. "Clark --" He spreads his legs a little farther. "Please?"

Clark looks thunderstruck, but he recovers enough to run his hand up Nightwing's thigh. "It would be my pleasure."

Nightwing laughs softly and arches his back a little, pressing into Clark's hand. "Not just yours." He winks -- odd, to see that, really. "Bruce -- show him where the stuff is?"

"You didn't really want me in bed after all," Bruce accuses him fondly, and gets up to find them the condoms and lube. While he's doing that, Nightwing ends up in Clark's arms again, kissing him hungrily. It's increasingly probable that the boy has a veritable harem of lovers, one for each mood, though the mood Clark suits is past Bruce's comprehension.

"Of course I did." Nightwing disentangles a little, turning to grin at Bruce again. He shifts easily onto his hands and knees, though somehow they've ended up perpendicular to the bed. No matter, really; that's what king sized mattresses are for. "Come here." Nightwing pats the mattress just in front of himself.

Bruce hands Clark the necessary equipment and sits on the bed where Nightwing indicated. "You'll be a bit distracted, won't you?"

"I hope so." Nightwing sits up enough to kiss him. Clark seems to have relaxed a little, or given in to his baser instincts, because Nightwing gasps halfway through the kiss, and that backward shift of his hips implies that not only is Clark fingering him, but he's got some sense of technique. "God, that feels good."

He hasn't had the opportunity to simply watch Nightwing's response to someone else before, without the distractions of causing those responses himself. He's torn between pushing Clark's hands away and doing a more practiced job, and merely observing -- and then Nightwing groans and kisses Bruce hard. Easier to let Clark do whatever he feels inspired to, up to a point, and feel Nightwing writhe and respond.

Nightwing gasps and breaks the kiss. Clark says, immediately, "Are you all right?" At least he has some sense of caution.

"Yes," Nightwing says, and that's a groan. "God -- don't stop." He kisses Bruce again, then mouths at his neck, sighing. "Just like that."

It's frustrating to have no control over any of this -- Bruce can run his hands over Nightwing's chest, but the boy is moving in response to Clark's fingers, not anything Bruce has done, and it complicates matters.

At least Clark appreciates what he has. "The way you move is beautiful," he says, and he sounds less innocent now. Possibly even moderately interesting.

"Keep going," Nightwing says, shuddering hard, and buries his face in Bruce's thigh.

"Take your time, Robbie," Bruce says, and Nightwing looks up at him.

Maybe his eyes are truly brown; with his coloring, they could be. He looks so offended -- "I'm --" and then he closes his eyes again, shivering at another touch from Clark. "I'm fine." He smiles fleetingly, interrupted by a moan that makes him close his eyes and shake. "Please, Clark. It's all right -- god I want you." He squeezes Bruce's thigh and opens his mouth again, wide and wet. He starts to suck Bruce to muffle his own groan. It's almost possible for Bruce to pretend that hungry sound has everything to do with him until he opens his eyes again; Clark's expression of focus, caution, and honest bliss is enough to dispel that.

They sigh. Together. Bruce strokes Nightwing's hair to get his attention -- not to ask whether he's done this with Clark, before, because it's not an issue, and they wouldn't have flirted so much if they had -- maybe. All he wants is a moment -- and Nightwing meets his eyes, lets him go for a second, and gives him that perfect grin.

It's only slightly marred by another thrust from Clark that makes his eyes flutter shut. "That's so damn good." Nightwing whimpers around him, and -- he's distracted. Not at all at his best, but he's good enough, practiced enough, that even off-peak he can make Bruce shudder.

Clark has his hand on Nightwing's hip -- balancing, pulling him backward, whatever it is -- and he, at least, is managing to keep his eyes open. "You feel amazing." There's something beyond the prosaic in his tone -- perhaps Nightwing's taste in men isn't as bland as it seems. Clark sounds hungry enough to be fierce.

Perhaps he is; Nightwing shudders hard at the next thrust -- series of thrusts -- and clutches at Bruce's hips, pulling him in with a growl. It's good; it always is, with Nightwing, but he's usually not this abrupt. Clark is distracting him. Nightwing knows his own limits -- but this might be past them. He's not up to his normal standards of brilliance.

Bruce is tempted to force some measure of control -- tangle his fingers in Nightwing's hair, maybe -- anything to break the irritating feeling that he's only there as an excuse, an accessory, or that if Nightwing had met Clark first, Bruce would be entirely unnecessary.

Nightwing lets him go again, gasping for breath, his lips wet and swollen. "God, please, Clark --" His eyes are wide. "Touch me -- I need --" He moans again, breathless and high.

"Rob -- Robin --" Clark's voice is hoarse, incoherent.

Nightwing interrupts him with another whimper -- how many names will he answer to, in the course of a night? -- and fucks his mouth on Bruce's cock, harder, matching the rhythm Clark is setting. It's not exactly what Bruce needs -- just off enough to let him watch without having to come immediately, even as Nightwing shudders hard and bucks against Clark, losing the pattern in the throes of his orgasm.

"Robin, that's -- oh, yes --" Clark says, and that expression of wonder and pain --

Bruce feels unpleasantly left out, but Nightwing is still gasping for breath. It's the wrong moment to make demands.

After a few moments, Nightwing looks up at him, brown eyes half-closed and a lazy smile on his face that has nothing at all to do with Bruce. "I can't feel my feet," he says mildly.

It makes Clark get off of him, if nothing else. "I'm sorry, Dick -- are you all right?"

Nightwing sits up and turns around, moving like a cat stretching in the sunlight. He embraces Clark, grinning. "More than."

"You're terribly rude," Bruce says, shaking his head. "Calling Robbie names and insulting him."

Clark gives him a bemused look. "You know perfectly well what I said."

"Yes, and you're rude." Bruce gives him a sharp look. "You're welcome to leave."

"Bruce." Nightwing disentangles himself from Clark and puts his hand on Bruce's thigh. "Can we stop playing this game, now?"

"Which game is that?"

Something very strange happens -- Bruce gets dizzy for a moment, or -- well, whatever it is, he's flat on his back, and Clark is straddling his chest, pinning him down. He's quite strong for a reporter. "This has gone on long enough."

Bruce blinks up at him. "Are you trying to intimidate me, Kent?"

Clark gives him a searching look. "Stop playing, Bruce, or I'll start to think you're going crazy. Again."

"It's all right, Clark," Nightwing says -- and it was his idea to bring this menace to society home in the first place, besides which he's a vigilante. He should deal with this.

"It's not." Clark glowers at Bruce, then looks up at Nightwing. "Are you sure he's all right? No amnesia?"

Nightwing fingers a bitemark on the side of his neck that Bruce is certain he didn't inflict, and sighs. "I'm as sure as I can be."

"There's nothing wrong with me," Bruce says irritably, and tries to pull his hands free -- to absolutely no avail. "Let me go."

Clark ignores him entirely; he's still looking at Nightwing. "I should dangle him out the window by his toes."

Bruce exclaims, "What?"

Nightwing's response is much calmer. "You know that wouldn't do any good." He kisses Clark -- the apparently insane, violent, prone to threats maniac -- on the cheek. They may be in league. "You should go."

"If you're sure." Clark glowers at Bruce again and manages to look quite intimidating. Then -- in another blur -- he's gone, and by the time Bruce sits up, he's dressed.

Bruce rubs his eyes to see if the blur goes away, then puts on his sternest face. "If I see you around here, Kent -- or anywhere near any of my offices -- I'll inform my attorney. And the police."

Clark shakes his head. "Sure you will." He tousles Nightwing's hair. "If you need anything --"

Nightwing smiles crookedly at him. "I'll call. I promise."

"I'll call you first. Like always." Which makes no sense, because Nightwing hasn't even given Bruce his phone number, but if Clark is leaving, it doesn't matter much. Clark gives Bruce one last glower. "Get it right, Bruce." And then -- without even opening the door -- he's gone.

Bruce shudders. "That's the last time I let you pick the entertainment for the evening."

Nightwing sighs heavily. "I thought you knew him better than that."

"No."

"It's too bad." Nightwing kisses him lightly, then gets out of bed. He goes through a brief series of stretches.

Bruce is still getting over the effects of Kent's little psychotic break, but watching Nightwing move is comforting. "Come back to bed."

Nightwing shakes his head. "I can't. I have too much to do tonight."

"Are you going to meet him somewhere else?" Bruce asks. It's not at all an idle question, and he can't manage to keep the tone nonchalant.

"No." Nightwing picks up his costume and his lurid green undergarments. "I'm sure he's on his way home to Metropolis already."

"Hm." Bruce watches him dress, which is not nearly as pleasant as watching him undress. Whatever possessed him to pick underwear of that shade, they suit him well, but the black bodysuit is even better. "Do you really have to go?"

Nightwing pauses for a moment, then turns to look at Bruce. His white lenses are back, and he looks forbidding. "You know the answer to that."

"It doesn't hurt to ask."

Nightwing picks up the oddly shaped gun he uses as a method of transportation and goes to the window. "I suppose not."

"Will I see you later?"

Nightwing gives him a tight smile. "I'm sure you will." He steps out the window and is gone.


End file.
